


Heart

by alcyonejonquil



Series: How You Appear [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancano POV, Angst with a Happy Ending, Diary/Journal, F/M, Love at First Sight, Not Canon Compliant, POV Male Character, Pining, Rare Pairings, Sliiightly Obsessive Ancano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 11:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14953578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcyonejonquil/pseuds/alcyonejonquil
Summary: The life of the ideal Thalmor agent is perfectly ordered and virtually devoid of emotion.As it turns out, Ancano is not an ideal Thalmor agent. Not anymore, at least.





	Heart

I used to be myself before I met you, you know.

Now, I find myself a complete stranger to the one who used to live inside of me before.

Yet, I would become anyone you needed me to. You must be aware of that. Aren't you?

I'm sorry. Not sure what came over me.

I only woke up a short while ago and didn't wish to rouse you, too, this early _,_ merely four hours past midnight. Your sleep is so light, after all. Such a flighty thing. Clelia says that after you left that place, that tower, you couldn't sleep for several days, and even when you finally collapsed from exhaustion, you never did shut your eyes for more than a couple of hours at a time. It's gotten better of late, noticeably better. You'd jump, still, at any sound louder than the slight creaking of a floorboard.

My darling Lilly. What your time with those wretched beings must have cost you. How much the memory of that horrid woman who called herself your mother has hurt, and will always hurt. I have told you that my sole desire is to have somehow shielded you from them, to have found you earlier than your Clea did. That it had been me who wrung the life out of that monster's eyes. The strength you found then is a part of you, though. Self-sacrifice, matricide; delivering future victims from the Hags' clutches, even if it meant that your soul should be marred irreparably in the process.

And you'd laugh if I spoke to you of the goddess that you are.

I got up as gingerly as I could and went to the other room in search of something to read, biding my time until sleep would deign to claim me again. And, somehow, I stumbled upon this. My journal, that I hadn't written anything in for what seems like whole Eras, though it should not be more than a few months. Guided by some strange impulse, I sat down and started scribbling.

Gods, the scratching of the quill wouldn't be loud enough to disturb you, would it? I can, fortunately, see you through the open door, and your shoulders and back have yet to stir. It is so cold out here in the North, that I insisted you wear warmer clothes even to bed, for fear of you getting ill; but I can see with my mind's eye how your flawless skin would shine in the moonlight as if made from purest ivory. The image is burned inside me so as it could never be erased.

That pallor—the first thing I have ever noticed about you, on that day I would cherish for the rest of my existence. I remember it so well, every second of it.

 

I was fighting a horrible headache. All afternoon had been spent conversing with the damned librarian, trying to pry some information out of him that I could relay in my monthly report. I was currently in my room, in the process of compiling said report, or so I claimed, preferring to stare absent-mindedly out of the window instead. I was broken from my reverie by the sight of three silhouettes marching towards the entrance to the College. One I could recognize by stature _—_ Faralda. Who were the two smaller ones? Some of those always complaining villagers, no doubt. But at this hour? It was close to midnight!

Mildly intrigued, and bored out of my mind with writing down the neverending string of petty intrigues and machinations of those self-proclaimed "mages", I got up from my desk and went downstairs. Nearing the entrance to the Hall of the Elements, I was met with a chorus of loud voices, of which Mirabelle's rang the clearest:

"What do you think gives you the right to arrive here in the middle of the night and demand an audience with the Arch-Mage? And with such nerve, as well!"

"With all due respect, the matter is of utmost urgency. We made the journey here as fast as we could because every minute lost might do an enormous amount of harm."

"Harm to whom? Explain yourself, girl!"

"It's not our place to explain. Not here, and certainly not now. We require only information, some that we have been told could be found within these walls. Nothing more."

  
They came into view just as Faralda was preparing to intervene.

The woman in the front—the one who had been speaking _—_ could not have been more than twenty-five years old. It wouldn't have been more obvious she was an Imperial recruit if she had it tattooed on her forehead. Lightly tanned skin, crooked nose, severe brow, short, matted brown hair, mismatched armour;the quintessential Cyrodiilic brat. The way she was looking at the College mages, however _—_ steadily, but with a calculating, almost fanatical gleam in her eyes, as if they were no more than mere rocks on an obstacle course to be jumped over on the way to the finish line _—_ filled me with sudden apprehension. Experience had taught me there was no end to the trouble these kinds of people brought with them. Intriguing, intriguing.

At that moment, she was scowling fiercely at the Altmer teacher, which would not have been so comical had the latter not been at least a full head taller:

"I have been given a mission of such importance that you couldn't even begin to imagine. I will get my hands on that book whether you and your conniving—"

"Clea," came a whisper from somewhere near the doors.

 

In my hurry to analyse this stranger, I had completely forgotten about her companion.

At first, I couldn't even see you in the semi-darkness of the hall, your austere blue robes blended so well with your surroundings. But then, then you stepped forward, and into the light of the nearest window.

I stared, blinking, trying to see past the illusion that must have been placed to obscure your face. Or, indeed, the mask; you had to be wearing a mask, certainly. For whose skin could be so pale as to seemingly reflect the moonbeams?

While approaching further, I had to change my mind. There was no such artifice involved. A vampire. A foul mutant had managed to gain access into Winterhold! Why hadn't the blubbering, incompetent oafs paid her any heed?

But at the sounds of my footsteps, you lifted your gaze instinctively and looked at me. And I had to admit to being the fool.

  
No vampire could have had eyes such as yours, sparkling neither pure green, nor silver or golden, but all at the same time. They stood out as the single drop of colour in your features, poor love of mine, rimmed as they were with deep dark circles. Mouth so small and dainty caught in a permanent frown, cheeks gaunt, complexion almost transparent—the sight of you was...eerie. Daunting.

You had started speaking, though, in that warm, soothing tone I've come to know so well. It shames me to admit I can't remember what you said, what any one of those present said, in fact. I recall just watching you talk, with small gestures to accompany your words.

There was nothing of this world in the way you moved and the way you held yourself. Nothing similar to what an ordinary woman would do—practised gestures of courtesy, or other deeply ingrained mannerisms. None of it. You were more like a child, untainted, expressive yet clumsy, unsure yet strangely alluring. You seemed right at home in these ancient halls, and I found myself wondering why.

And then I realised. After all, I would know a fellow trained magic user when I saw one.

You exuded Magicka from every pore. I had yet to sense anyone so in tune with their abilities, with such strong an aura; there was much more Aetherius than Mundus in you, and by then, I was completely and utterly entranced.

You see, my Heart? I was yours ever since I first laid my eyes on you.

Clelia didn't wish to dawdle—unsurprisingly enough—after convincing Urag to let her read the tomes she came for, and left immediately after. Naturally, you went with her, turning your head one more time to say goodbye to all of us gathered in front of the entrance. Did I only imagine that you looked at me last, and even for a moment longer than you gazed at the others?

In the meantime, I had approached Faralda and inquired about the unexpected visitors. She told me your names, and that there was not much else she managed to piece together about the two of you. You came from very far away, were apparently on a top-secret mission, and required a very particular book. That was all.

Illia...such an elegant, unassuming name. Such a fascinating mystery.

 

First priority: write to all my contacts to be on the lookout for two rather secretive young women travelling through Skyrim on some puzzling quest; I gave strict indications that I should be informed immediately if any news of them came to light. My instincts were on high alert. I knew something was afoot, and had to find out exactly what.

And then came the change, the result of your gentle light having descended upon me. Oh, how desperately I tried to blame my ever-increasing restlessness on a sense of duty towards my leaders! Quite valiantly, indeed. But every letter that arrived was met with a stuttering breath and a pang of deluded hope. Nothing seemed to help: neither my studies, nor the long walks on the seafront during frigid evenings. You were supposedly a suspicious individual to be monitored for any illicit activity, but that was not at all how I thought about you when you came to me in my dreams.

For in my dreams you did come to me, dearest one, and increasingly often.

How convenient that I should have the reflection of those tortured few weeks right here, in this little notebook. The unbearable fullness of my heart and the rising disquietude of my mind demanded to be let out, therefore, I had to resort to the only confidant I could find. They poured out of me, the words, just as they do in this very moment.

* * *

"I can't help but see her every time I close my eyes," I wrote one evening. "How did this come to be? What sort of twisted curse has been placed on my person?  
She is not, by any means, a great beauty. A little odd, yes. Slightly unusual looking. Someone I should have noticed, mentioned in passing to one of my colleagues, and promptly forgotten.  
I am mistaken. It's her magic, it has to be. I've sensed it. It saturates her being, as if it were the only thing she has ever known, that she has lived for in this world. Such a witch constitutes a formidable threat to any foe. She must not be left to wander freely, unobserved and out of our control. Her whereabouts have to be known at all times!"

  
"Where could she have studied magic, though? Surely not at this College. Not at any College. She has the appearance of a recluse, of one raised far from the clamour of civilisation. Yet someone must have taught her how to channel her abilities, to tap into the endless pools of Aetherius. And she does it with such ease, like breathing. I have never seen an Altmer have an aura akin to hers, let alone a human."

  
"I must, I absolutely _must_ get a hold of myself. I believe I am starting to lose my sanity. All my arduous training, all the compromises, all the struggle to rise through the ranks in order to exercise my true potential, and for what? For it all to be for naught, to be thrown away at the sight of lovely green eyes? Am I genuinely no better than the uncouth adolescent boy from those bawdy songs, who leaves home and hearth incited by some feminine wiles? And a human, no less! A human hedge mage raised who-knows-where and keeping the worst kind of company imaginable?"

  
"I am appalled by what I wrote the other night. How could I ever think to describe the Lady Illia in such terms? She is more exquisite every time I conjure her image in my mind. There can be no one like her on this disgraced plane of existence. With every passing hour, the thought of running off to find her again becomes harder and harder to resist.  
I examine my feelings and what I find horrifies me; I am afraid of what they would have me do, what I shall find myself doing not long from now. I shall abandon everything and scour all of Skyrim in search of her. Gods, how can my soul simultaneously tremble with fear and sing to the heavens with joy and longing?"

  
"I leave tonight. I am compelled to look after her, how could I have been so foolish? She is on a secret quest, that almost certainly has put her in harm's way. What if misfortune has already sunk its bitter talons into her? What if—  
That, there, is a thought I must not linger on, lest all reason should desert me before I can be of any use to her at all. I have to hold myself together. I shan't rest until my eyes are upon her once more.  
Blessed Mara, you who are Mother to us all, I pray to you now, as I never have before. Keep Illia in your loving care, and give unto me the strength to weather any storm that would stand between me and her. May she be well, and may I find a way to spend the time I have left in this world at her side, where I belong."

* * *

I did indeed leave, and not even an hour after scrawling that last short note. Dressed as a common traveller, I took the first carriage to Whiterun, the most sensible place to start.  
  
The search for you is something I have tried to forget, with little success. The endless days and nights of haunted fear, of wondering, of listening to every uttered rumour, and, most of all, using every means at my disposal to steer clear of my former associates. A fugitive then, as I am now, and will presumably always be.

(How they must have scorned me, laughed in my absence! Master Ancano the Deserter. The obstinate ignoramus who thought himself so awfully distinguished, vanished without a trace, like an old bout of flatulence in the wind.)  
  
_Old_. Ha, that would be a word that tormented me on my journey. And _monster_. _Twisted_. A few others. Could I have dared to hope that one such as you would accept my presence, regard me as more than a vile, complacent Thalmor puppet?

I was becoming aware of the depth of my feelings by then. You were moonlight and peace and Magic and Spirit and Life. No wonder I fell in love with you as I did. I had no choice. It could barely be called "living", that state which I used to wallow in before meeting you. My soul had been indeed my own, but it had been lifeless, like a flower wilting with thirst, every day a little more, and you had come before me as the clearest mountain spring.

I call you Heart because that is what you are to me. The centre of my being, the life-giving force. You took me, pulled me apart and remade me into the one I am today.

News of Alduin's defeat at the hands of the Dragonborn had reached me on the road, but still, I was unable to make the connection. I was so unbelievably fortunate; had I not stumbled upon that drunken guard who had heard about the Imperial knight and her mysterious mage friend boarding the Northern Maiden to Raven Rock, I would have certainly lost a lot more precious time. Arriving in Windhelm under the cover of darkness, I spent almost all the gold I carried with me to secure immediate passage to Solstheim, but I could not care less. I had found you, found you at long last!

I can only attribute my managing to track you down to the forest near that palace of Death to single-minded focus and a complete disregard for my own safety. I practically ran through those barren, godsforsaken woods, praying to whomever might have listened that the corruption which plagued the land would not have consumed you already. I deduced the reason for your being there— putting an end to that very corruption. Was that the secret mission you'd spoken of?

And then I spotted your little tents, in a small clearing near the ruins, saw the campfire and your silhouettes huddled together, talking quietly, and the world ground to a halt.  
  
Many times over do I owe you my life, sweet Illia. Clea had an arrow strung and pointing at my chest before I could utter a single word (which does not surprise me; after all, in the condition in which I found myself at the time, the resemblance between me and the mindless zombies of Miraak must have been quite significant). Yet you stayed her hand and demanded to know who I was.

You recognised me immediately from the College when I approached. Nevertheless, it took a lot of convincing before I earned your trust enough to be let in on the plan.

I told you that I had defected the Thalmor, and aimed to repent for all my previous wrongdoings by helping purge evil from wherever I went.

To anyone else, that tale would have warranted a thorough thrashing, or, even more likely, a swift knife to the stomach. As it turned out, the only thing the fearsome Dragonborn warrior Clelia Orsino had a soft spot for was atonement. I learned most of the story that night. What you had done already, and what you planned to do next. To this day, I wonder what you must have thought of me then. I was paying attention, I really was, but I couldn't help but throw desperate glances at you from time to time. Such was my relief at having found you unscathed, that I felt (and quite possibly, looked) half-mad.

You, on the other hand, were resplendent. I drank in the sight of your indescribable eyes shimmering in the firelight until I could no more. Your robes were still midnight blue, but these were more elaborate, trimmed with warm fur, and much sturdier. Clelia seemed to have acquired a new set of armour as well, understandable, given your recent string of victories.  
  


I fought shoulder to shoulder with you in the Temple of Miraak, prepared to lay down my life to protect yours at any second. And I would have surely died defending you, had you needed any defending. As it were, I had to limit myself to casting Lightning Bolts here and there, all the while trying not to stare at you open-mouthed like a damned imbecile.

Words cannot even begin to adequately convey the sight of you fighting. You were a vision of winter, conjuring Ice Shards far sharper than the finest dagger, launching them at the monsters with unerring precision, and summoning blizzards which tore apart the endless swarms of undead. The delicate sapphire circlet upon your chestnut hair gleamed with the power of a hidden enchantment, making you resemble a warrior princess of old.

The two of you moved together as one perfectly synchronised whole, Clea's sword-and-shield technique being itself superior to most others I'd witnessed.

Though I still had to hold your shuddering form, whispering words of encouragement and mending the few scrapes and bruises that marred your skin, while she faced the First Dragonborn inside that infernal book. "Not again, not again," you said over and over, and, through heaving sobs, told me that the first time you had to let her fight alone, you almost went insane with worry, and this, the second time, felt like that all over again. She was your sister in all the ways that mattered, you said, and you could not bear the thought of losing her.

Needless to say, she returned, swaying with blood loss, but alive and victorious. Two fighters had left Raven Rock for the Temple, but there were three to come back, and the three of them were offered the former Severin Manor as a reward for their efforts.

  
I now find myself standing here, thoroughly bemused: what divine power must have intervened, for it all to fall into place as perfectly as it did? I am not worthy. I, presumably, never will be. But damned shall I be to all Oblivion should I not try to become worthy with every breath that I take, with my every thought and every deed.

We had taken to strolling along the coastline in the evenings, the two of us, discussing all manner of things, magical and otherwise, while Clea mostly stayed at home, writing letters to that priest fellow over in Dawnstar that she seemed to talk about so often.

We were naturally pulled towards one another, as if in a dream. A dream...

Feeling your lips on mine for the first time felt like the most blessed of dreams. I was burning, turning to cinders at your feet, and your kiss came upon me like sweet summer rain, healing my deepest, ugliest wounds. You had thought me deserving of your love, Moonlight, and from that day onwards, life became poetry, and song, and boundless wonder.

We contented ourselves with holding hands, with fleeting caresses, stolen embraces; until we simply didn't think it necessary to do so anymore.

What emphasis do most people put on the physical act of lovemaking, as though it would represent the key, the only goal there is in sharing your life with someone! Or even, Gods forbid, they make it the main focus of their entire existence! I know you share my bewilderment at this concept, my Heart, as we've spoken of it before.

How, when I adored all of you, when everything I had, everything I was, belonged to you, how, then, would I not desire you in that way also? As I became aware of the fact that you loved me as I loved you, and you trusted me with your body (you, who were so vulnerable, so innocent), I felt humbled beyond measure. But it was still _us_ , still _our souls_ , that were so irrevocably intertwined that no force in all creation would dare try to separate them.

  
Of course it was world-altering, that first time (and all the times that followed).

Of course bringing you pleasure was everything I'd always wanted, and I was so overcome with happiness, that our kisses carried with them the faintest hint of salt.

Of course that seeing your glowing, alabaster skin slide over my darker one will never cease to leave me breathless, gasping for air with the exquisiteness of it.  
  
Of course we enjoy each other's bodies as often as we can, because it feels beautiful, and right, and as if the Divines are kind and just and merciful.

Of course that after all the conflicts on the mainland are resolved, the storms have passed, and there will be no reason for me to hide anymore, we will travel to the nearest Temple of Mara to be wed in front of Gods and men.

  
I can see you begin to stir, my love, for sunlight now filters through the curtains, and disturbs your sleep. You will rise, startle at my absence, and then immediately find me here, poring over these pages. And you will smile that secret smile of yours, that you keep only for me, and I will thank every single power on Nirn and beyond that has made this possible.

  
I began this entry with a false assumption, it would seem. I _never_ used to be myself before I met you. I was but a mask, a spectre; a crippled husk, unknowingly yearning for the Heart who would one day come and infuse me with her otherworldly light, far warmer and brighter than any star in the Northern sky.

**Author's Note:**

> There can never be enough angsty, 'villain-falling-in-love-with-heroine' stories in this world, so I basically had to write my own, hadn't I?
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing...well, anything for my own enjoyment (as opposed to school assignments and such). I've been reading fanfic for a few years now, but never really considered penning anything myself. However, this idea of Ancano, the powerful, respected Thamor agent, falling head over heels for Illia would just not leave me alone. 
> 
>  Obvious creative liberties have been taken regarding the canon events in the game, the dialogue and so on. I guess this is an exercise in how to make the entire College questline completely redundant.
> 
> (And if you could find the time to point out what I did wrong - or right - with this story, or any thoughts you might have on it, in the comments, that would mean the world. I'm only a beginner, and always looking to improve my writing).


End file.
